


And the Demon? Well,

by antagonists



Category: Gintama
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 19:21:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4576704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antagonists/pseuds/antagonists
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And what of the demon, they’ll ask.</p><p>Well,</p><p>you’ve taught a witch her spells, a necromancer how to count bones and create flesh. You’ve fashioned a demon in your image and you’ve created a god. Little children no more—you’ve taught them to fight. How to steal a soul, resurrect a soul, devour a soul, and how to burn (for eternity).</p><p>You’re a demon, but you could topple those cruel, silent heavens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And the Demon? Well,

**Author's Note:**

> experimental piece bc i love mad characters

+

 

 

Devastated by war, the nation is a hellish realm. Sand beneath your feet, sun in your eyes; everything’s burning, and you curl your fingers into the fire. Smoke curls from your mouth and the stars fall from your hair—beautiful and horrendous. You grin at the terror.

 

Where are the gods? Where are they now?

 

Nowhere, really, but the people don't know that.

 

Ah, a young witch child, thrown into a deep well by terrified villagers. She’s crying, you note, quite loudly. When you retrieve her from the cold stone floor and set her onto dirt, she gives you a wide-eyed look at your red gaze. Her fingers tremble, but you do not scare her, no; you interest her, more than those boring villagers ever could.

 

 _Crying won’t help_ , you tell the little girl. Her hair is like sunset and her inquisitive eyes like the sea. She’s dressed in red, shies away from the sunlight and towards shadow. A powerful witch to be, indeed. She stares for a moment more, clutching at your pinky. You repeat your words, and she begins to sniffle once more.

 

 _Don’t you want to learn,_ you say patiently. _You can be a witch. I’ll teach you_.

 

 _Really_ , she asks through her glittering tears. You feel the energy at her fingertips, raw and brutal. You want to kindle it, watch it grow and fester and destroy. She’ll do well, you know it so.

 

 _Really_ , you say. Taking her into your arms, you lead her to your home, deep and far in the woods where most humans do not dare venture. She eats a tremendous amount of food, nearly chews through the entire meal you set in front of her within a minute. You do not have much food here, no, since you have no need to eat, but you can hunt. You show her, jump and grab at a passing bird with your fingers.

 

The girl laughs giddily. _Kagura_ , you name her, _do not be ashamed_.

 

Kagura smiles, learns quickly over the years. Her bad habits are just like yours, and her temper is probably worse. She learns how to curse, how to hex, how to cast the nastiest spells. She wears souls in her pearl earrings and necklace and carries telling bones everywhere she goes.

 

You teach her how to make these umbrellas made out of paper, guide her hands over with the wax. When she’s perfected the art, she adds her own twist. Now, instead of cramming all those souls into her pearls, she coaxes them into the umbrellas. She sells these empty husks at nearby villages, beautiful and eye-catching little things. The people are thrilled, so excited. They do not recognize her.

 

The umbrellas, laced with magic, make the people go mad. The longer they hold onto it, the more pretty it grows, like a blossoming bud. But instead of the sun and water as its life, it is the human soul. Kagura goes to collect them once they’re finished, holds the umbrellas out to the moonlight with a proud grin. They glitter like the night sky, fade into grey like passing storm clouds. Beneath her, corpses grow cold.

 

 _Are they pretty,_ she asks. You tell her _very_ and send her off into the sunset. When she walks away, you see but a grown witch’s back, slim and dangerous.

 

 

+

 

 

In a graveyard (you can’t remember which one, there are so many of them now), you find a small boy kneeling in front of a heavy, unremarkable stone. There’s nothing special about him, nothing outstanding, but you step towards him anyways. When you kneel down, he does not look up but curls into himself even more. Amidst all the tall stones, he does not belong with his living, breathing self; not with that colorful clothing of his, here in such a whitewashed world.

 

He really is small, you think. You could crush him easily without a thought, even if he were to wield that flimsy sword next to him.

 

 _What’s wrong, boy?_ You say instead. You must look fearsome with the shadows around your eyes, hanging from your shoulders. Smoke falls from your lips, and yet the boy sees nothing. He’s blind, you realize, unable to do much but hear the hum of your voice. His muddy eyes stare past you.

 

 _My sister is dead_ , he says. _My father is dead. What am I to do now?_

 

You sit back and think. The boy is plain, yes, but he could be fearsome. He does not need sight to bring back the dead. His physical sight has no meaning in the world of bad spirits.

 

 _Do you want to learn,_ you grin; he can probably hear it in your words. _I’ll teach you how to bring them back_. _You could bring anyone back_.

 

 _Anyone_ , the boy repeats in surprise.

 

 _Anyone,_ you confirm.

 

The boy demands that you tell him how. He reaches out at thin air, and you lean in just so he can grasp at the folds of your robes. Those thin fingers, despite how bony they look, hold on very tightly. Impressive strength for such a young one. You look down upon him kindly, though he cannot see your face.

 

 _Shinpachi_ , you call him, a boy with no fate but the death at his fingertips. He’s a delicate thing, prone to bruising whenever he falls, quick to cry when frustrated and teased. But he’s resilient, takes your harsh lessons with determination. The sword he’d wielded lies forgotten in a corner, and is now replaced with all manners of books and chalk. With his careful hands, Shinpachi draws the curve of summoning circles, writes all over the floor of your home to practice whenever you’re not watching over him.

 

You often find yourself waking up at the ridiculous hours of dawn because of this child who sniffs and frowns at the smell of dust. He feels around your home, palms grating past dirt and crumbs. He directs an unpleased face at you, which worsens when you chuckle.

 

For someone so immersed in forbidden arts, he is incredibly insistent on cleanliness and routine.

 

The first time he brings someone back from the other side a few years later, it is a young woman who Shinpachi calls his sister. Though he is disappointed at her general lack of response and monotone voice, he is not deterred. He asks for your help to set her down again; in the future when he has perfected his skills more, he says, he will bring her back properly.

 

You oblige, of course. Killing has never been something difficult for you, and in this case it’s a mere repeat of her past. She goes down with no more than a confused whisper, and Shinpachi buries himself in your books, fingers running over the textured pages as he rehearses spells and incantations anxiously. His sister’s bones lay idle in a locked chest a mere arm span away.

 

He practices on all sorts of people, raising them and setting them down again. It’s like he’s gone mad, and you look upon with a sort of pride that has you grinning wickedly at times.

 

What a lonely little boy, you think, when he’s grown bigger and taller. He leaves your care with more confidence. You’ve taught him not to see in the living world, but in that of spirits. He sees the same ghosts and wisps that you do, lets them fall into his hands as he would a maiden.

 

 _They can be quite beautiful_ , he says to you one night. You wholeheartedly agree, and watch his ascent up stone steps with a faint smile. From his neck dangle finger bones, white and glowing.

 

 

+

 

 

You are idly shuffling through a box of historical scrolls when you hear the shuffle of small feet through the woods. At first you suspect that it may be a mere forest animal, but the steady plodding rhythm alerts you otherwise. You walk out into the open, where you see a bright-eyed kid covered in blood. In his right hand is a small crystal dagger.

 

 _Well, well,_ you laugh. It’s already dusk. _What can I do for you, sweet child?_

 

The child does not answer. Rather, he moves closer without any hesitation. You do not flinch when he plunges the dagger into your chest, and stare curiously at the flash of red in those young eyes. After a moment or two of still silence, you take the boy’s hand firmly into your own, pulling it away from the dagger.

 

Really, you feel not much more than a small pinch. It bothers you more that you’ve gotten your clothes dirty than the fact that you’d been stabbed does. You lament the state of your yukata and drop the bloodied weapon onto the ground. No more than a few paces away, the child seats himself on the cold stone and tilts his head.

 

 _I knew it_ , the little boy says, sounding very lonely and very bold for his age. _You’re a demon_.

 

 _Where did you hear that,_ you smile, reveal your sharp, sharp teeth.

 

 _A monkey told me_ , he replies. _He said that you could teach me to be a demon_.

 

You laugh again, smoke spewing out in wispy coils. The child continues to stare at your eyes, entranced and at the same time envious. He wants to become something else, wants to become a demon so that he can win. He wants to be like _you_ , wishes to sate the chaotic squalls in his mind.

 

 _So you want to learn_ , you say. Laughter itches at the back of your throat. You can teach him, sure you can. You’ll shape him into a fine beast, one that knows nothing but the race of blood under his hands in these terrible times. These poor, poor children, ignored by the world and knowing only your company. You’ll take it. You’re the perfect teacher for this and you know it.

 

This boy doesn’t cry. Sougo, he calls himself. Little demon, you call him. And indeed he is. He learns to watch how you move, how you breathe, how you let your mind trickle to madness just before a kill. He’s clumsy at first, as they all are. He burns himself on flames and breaks his bones from falling too far.

 

Still, you’re a patient teacher. You push his heart towards the abyss and draw miasma from his skin. His soul hardens, blackens, becomes coarse and unforgiving like his own mind. Behold the sadism in his vicious teeth, the cries of his unfortunate enemies.

 

You watch him during his first felling, smile at the arc of his blade through flesh and bone. Carnage at its greatest, smelling of sharp rust and charcoal. You breathe in the pitch black smoke. It settles nicely in your lungs, feels like death and sin and everything in between.

 

Sougo smiles at you later; you’re proud to say he’s finally grown his fangs.

 

 

+

 

 

When you’re outside treading through the restless sands, you notice the uneven heat patterns in the wind, how they feel more like an explosion rather than the glide of wind over dunes. If you tilt your head back to peer past hundreds of faraway mirages, you can see the hint of a flaming pyre on the horizon. It’s typical, really; the humans don’t like creating unnecessary heat when the sun is still out, and they fear that they may even bring unwanted attention when the stars only have the moon as a companion.

 

But you look closer anyways. What do you see? Ah, there’s a human sacrifice limping up a mountain. Look—the bastard—look how high he’s climbed on his own. The pyre roars before him menacingly. His eyes still cut like ice, even as the ends of his hair trail behind him like lingering ash.

 

When you alight before the desperate crowd, you ignore the horrified screams and gasps in favor of looking at the ratty teenager. He’s thin, lanky, looks like he’d rather bite your head off than be taken alive. The first thing he does is scowl when he sees you, shoulders tight and raised as warning.

 

Good, you think. It makes the teaching all the more interesting.

 

 _Begone, you demon_ , he says. This he says, but he moves no closer to the fire. He’s afraid of it, you can tell. There are thousands of bitter memories trapped within those eyes, and you want to reel them all out and weave them into something magnificent. Something fiery, something powerful.

 

Rather than comply, you tilt your head and give him a meaningful look. If you try, you could look tempting, enticing enough to follow before they realize what they’re doing. For this, though, you maintain your appearance and blow a stream of smoke towards the boy’s face. Your hair is silver in the sunlight, and your eyes are glittering rubies.

 

 _You wanna die here,_ you ask, setting your chin on one palm. The answer is obvious to you, of course, but where would the fun be in that?

 

Funnily enough, he says yes the first time. Once the crowd behind them urges him to continue the sacrifice, though, he spits viciously onto the ground and stomps in your direction.

 

He’s stubborn, learns slower than the others just because he doesn’t like listening to your advice. Never does he reveal his name, so you just call him by Oogushi.

 

But no matter. You still teach him how to use fire, how to breathe it. No longer will the fires hurt him—they’ll bend to his every whim, his every beck and call. One time, he tries to set you on fire. It tickles, and you laugh outrageously loud. He may have become a god of the flames, may be able to rise from ashes and ascend into the skies, but you are still his teacher; you are still his demon.

 

You smooth your palm over the flames and hissing sparks and smirk. It probably looks menacing, but Oogushi doesn’t look away, nor does he try it again.

 

 _Stupid demon_ , he grumbles, and you respond by cackling smoke into his eyes.

 

Later, when he’s mastered technique and strength, you guide him into making the flames even hotter. They burn white, so bright that your night-accustomed eyes almost water. When he sets his hand to metal, it glows before melting away, giving way to the young god who’s conquered his fear.

 

You remember it well—a lonely god of fire with crystal ice for his eyes.

 

 

+

 

 

And what of the demon, they’ll ask.

 

Well,

 

you’ve taught a witch her spells, a necromancer how to count bones and create flesh. You’ve fashioned a demon in your image and you’ve created a _god_. Little children no more—you’ve taught them to fight. How to steal a soul, resurrect a soul, devour a soul, and how to burn (for eternity).

 

You’re a demon, but you could topple those cruel, silent heavens.

 

 

+

 

 


End file.
